


Three Coin Toss Kingdom

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s10e01 Black, Episode: s10e02 Reichenbach, Episode: s10e17 Inside Man, Episode: s10e22 The Prisoner, Gen, M/M, Minor Demon Dean/Original Male Character, Season/Series 10, Traces of One-Sided Crowley/Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4884478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This bar is hell. And he should know.</p><p>They've been here for days. Days. And for what? Power ballads and cheap waitresses? They could have that anywhere. They could have everything. </p><p>He checks his phone again. A few contracts are pending. He would like to oversee the deals himself, but he is – otherwise occupied. He thinks. Someone else is going to have to be there in his stead. Geoffrey, maybe. He stares at his screen, watches it go black. Stares at the black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Coin Toss Kingdom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Memberoftheangelgarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Memberoftheangelgarrison).



> For Nina :)

 

 

 

 

_your shadow_

 

_dragged under the neon lights_

_before the night has fallen_

 

 

 

 

 

This bar is hell. And he should know.

They've been here for days. _Days_. And for what? Power ballads and cheap waitresses? They could have that anywhere. They could have _everything_.

He checks his phone again. A few contracts are pending. He would like to oversee the deals himself, but he is – otherwise occupied. He thinks. Someone else is going to have to be there in his stead. Geoffrey, maybe. He stares at his screen, watches it go black. Stares at the black.

In the background, the (bad) karaoke version of some Eurythmics hit is almost drowned out by the protest from the crowd.

He doesn't understand it. Doesn't understand _him_. He looks into his eyes, and they are just like any random demon's eyes. Black, shining, cruel. But then – he cringes when the bad singing behind him becomes impossibly more atrocious – but then this guy just sits around and drinks, or sleeps. Sleeps with others, granted, but he _lets himself_ be seduced first. Fine, it can't be denied eyes that green and legs like that don't exactly work against him. But the passivity makes no sense. It's a _disadvantage_.

The stool beside him is scraped over the rough floor. A weight settles, a drink is ordered.

He turns around, squints and assumes an unimpressed expression. “Already done with our tasks for the day?” Pointedly inclines his head towards the stage.

The guy downs his drink like he was dying for it. Which makes no sense, neither metaphorical nor literal. He is already dead. Nothing can kill him right now. And drinking his sorrows away? A thing of the past. He is an emotionless killing machine. That's how he was _built_ , the final lock and key just had to slide into place. Really, this loitering around is just _tasteless_.

The guy finally throws him a glance. Eyes glazed over and blank, practically bored. The _nerve_. The guy tips against his glass for a refill, drawls, “I ain't got no tasks anymore.” Then he grins, looks at him slyly. “That finally sunk into your thick skull?”

He doesn't even wait to see if his words have any effect, just turns back to his mindless drinking. His words don't have any effect of course. Well, they do, but he is not going to parade that around like some two-bit whore. Simply lets some sharp traces of criticism flow into his voice, smoothed over with practiced indifference. “So this will be another repetitive night of second-class sex and beer barely distinguishable from dishwater?”

The guy gets up – he'd sat down on the stool like he was mounting a horse – and just grins at him. A smile that's stretched over his face, thin, teeth showing slightly. His eyes are narrowed, slits of cold fire in the smoke and dim lighting. “What, you jealous?” The smirk gets wider. The guy empties his drink, head tipped back and throat exposed mockingly. Then he turns and slinks away, a snake in the grass. Saunters over to a guy who's been undressing him with his eyes half the evening.

He turns back towards the bar, glowers at the dark wood of the counter. The bartender watches him with a raised eyebrow, but refrains from commenting. Smart guy.

He sighs, throws a rolled-up bill on the counter.

“I'll have whatever he's had.”

>

And then the adios. It's worse, in a way.

Of course, he had to return eventually. This was what the kingdom needed, what was best for it. No one has need for a dog that bites the hand feeding it. He was thinking of the kingdom, and he made the right choice. He just has to – re-acclimatize. Get used to the atmosphere again. He leans back in his throne, draws some air into the body he's been using so long, it's practically his. Sulfur, of course. A hint of dust, which is an affectation, but useful for dramatic effects. On occasion. Not in a long while. Maybe he should have someone sweep the place.

And then there's his mother.

She's, well. Something else. Annoying, and pompous, certainly. But he supposes as long as she doesn't get in the way, she can stay. And as long as she doesn't try anything. Besides chattering away and gossiping and complaining. He is the king. He can show mercy if he so chooses.

He dismisses another demon with a wave of his hand. It bobs its head, stumbles back, grateful and confused and disgustingly subservient. He motions the next one to come forth, bored. His mother eyes the interaction from her seat with barely concealed disdain, mouth turned down and fingers twitching around her embroidery. It doesn't concern him, of course. Her voice has no weight here. None at all.

He pretends to listen to the demon's request. Really, the faster the demon gets to the point, the faster he can either say yes or have it thrown out. The thing's eyes are black. Of course they're black, but that's not the point. Somehow, they're nothing like De- that guy's eyes. He blinks. The demon has stopped talking, is watching him with a blend of confusion and suspicion.

He clears his throat, sits up straighter. “Repeat that.” He raises an eyebrow, assumes an impatient and stern expression. “But shorter.”

From somewhere to the side, he can hear his mother snort.

>

After all that, it should feel more surreal to be sitting with Dean in a bar.

The last time he'd seen him, he'd been bloody and defeated and stubborn. So, back to his usual self. What a tragedy.

It's like looking at a curiously distorted mirror image. Dean and that guy – they're nothing alike. Dean, here, with his slumped shoulders and soft lines of his mouth. His words no longer pointed like knives towards others but turned inward again. Really, humanity is such a bad PR joke. All the angst with none of the candy. He might pity Dean if he were capable of such a thing.

And still, he sits there and he listens.

He feels strangely content to just do this. Comforted, even. Must be the drink.

This is the first time in – he can't remember – a long time that someone's actually listened to him.

“Does that sound like your mother?”

He doesn't answer, which must be answer enough. Dean, mercifully, doesn't point that out. Just fills his own glass again, sits with his elbows on the counter while he drinks. They don't really talk after that, but Dean stays with him until he's ready to leave. Dean huddles into his jacket, walks slowly up the street, eventually gets swallowed up by the dark. He supposes for a human, it must be a cold night. There's no one around, and Dean was alone as well. A lonely night.

He stays and stands under the garish neon lights for a while. The lights throwing him from red to blue and back. He breathes deliberately, watches the white mist. Watches the road Dean walked, and decides.

>

And now: bleeding out on the floor like a stabbed pig, and Sam Winchester standing over him.

Really, he should have seen it coming.

Flip a coin, and no matter which side is up, one will be down.

He makes the mistake to try and speak anyway, coughs around the blood in his mouth. He'd at least like to understand _why_ he's supposed to die this time. Would be a courtesy, really. Of course, Sam knows nothing of such things. Bloody hell, but he's such a _child_. A really annoying, cruel child. He twists onto his side, though it does little to alleviate the pain twisting up his insides. Sam is waving that toothpick around, pacing erratically, yelling. The floor is damned cold, and dirty. Sam Winchester's rage is a cold and inexorable thing.

“Screaming,” Sam hisses, eyes narrowed and jaw set. “Just like all the rest of them.”

And then. It reminds him.

How it felt to not feel – anything. He is an eternal thing. There is nothing else to him. He can't remember why he ever wanted there to be more. He _is_ more.

The light dips from dim and white to deep and red.

There is nothing he has to hold onto. And without it, he stands.

 


End file.
